On Moroccon Sands

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Morocco, Africa... Morocco, <em style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Africa, was the thought that stepped out of the airport with me into a myriad of dust and nerves. A huge dark- skinned man hauled my suitcase into the black back of his taxi, which I followed him into, trying to breathe through the evening humidity.

It is often the memory of the feelings we had, the ones that we can’t quite grasp anymore, that linger softly with us. The taxi window was the opening to a new world, one I explored with the awe of a child finding he can walk. I pull at a memory which eludes me, but one in which I see remnants of wonderment and awe as I received an education about this place from the best possible source- itself.

I was jolted back to consciousness, however, when the taxi stopped just outside a tiny thing you might call an alleyway, though I couldn't tell through the darkness if it lead out to anywhere

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